


Love, Blood, Rhetoric - Nygmobblepot Week

by GhostOfDorothyStreet



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Blood, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic AU, Murder, love being more than grand romantic gestures, outside pov, referenced sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-31 07:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12127155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostOfDorothyStreet/pseuds/GhostOfDorothyStreet
Summary: A series of ficlets based around the prompts given for Nygmobblepot week September 2017.Rating, warnings, and tags may change as the week goes on.





	1. Day 1 - Murder Husbands

Nicholas Sylvestro whistled tunelessly to himself as he walked down an empty, featureless corridor of Arkham asylum.

He was one of a handful of guards assigned to the secure containment units, the least hospitable accommodations that Arkham had to offer. These were four cells, situated at the four most distant corners of the asylum, as far away from the general population and each other as possible. They were reserved for inmates who were considered to pose the highest risk, and at that particular time, three of them were occupied. 

One by Jerome Valeska, the Joker - northwest corner - one by Edward Nygma, the Riddler - northeast corner - and one only recently filled. 

Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin - southwest corner.

It was to this last inmate that Nicholas was assigned, and all things considered, things could have been far worse. Cobblepot had been brought in after what could really only be described as a colossal murderous breakdown, and had handed himself in to the police a nervous, gibbering wreck. But since he'd been at the asylum, he'd been nothing but calm and cooperative, even if everything he said did leave Nicholas feeling like he'd somehow been insulted in a way he didn't quite understand. 

By contrast, he'd heard nothing but bad things about Valeska, and Nygma...

The less said about Nygma the better.

That evening, he carried a tray of food down to Cobblepot's cell. The morning and evening meals, plus a visit from a doctor around noon, were the only times it was deemed necessary for inmates such as him to be checked on, the cells being designed to be essentially escape proof. The doors were solid steel, with only a small barred window cut into them well above head height for light and ventilation. The walls were featureless except for similar windows on the outside wall, and the sparse furniture was all bolted securely to the floor. What was more, the locks on the doors were state of the art biometrics, responding only to specific, living fingerprints, and sealing shut if they were tampered with in any way.

When he opened to door, Cobblepot was already sat at the table, as though waiting for him. How anyone kept track of time in one of these cells Nicholas didn't know. The tiny, scrawny looking man man looked up when Nicholas entered, and gave him a small, unnerving smile, and Nicholas paused for a brief moment noting that something was off...

The doctors had given Cobblepot a decidedly unflattering pair of glasses with thick plastic frames to replace the distinctive monocle he usually wore - the glass and chain were deemed too much of a risk for obvious reasons - but on this particular day he wasn't wearing them. Such a strange, vain little creature that would sacrifice his vision for aesthetics even when he only saw three people a day.

Nicholas set the tray down on the low, bolted down table,and Cobblepot set down the week old newspaper he'd been leafing through.

"Oh wonderful, it's the brown mush today," he said, his voice sickly with sarcastic cheer, "So much better than they grey or green."

Nicholas smothered a sympathetic smile. The guy had a point, but it wouldn't do to say as much.

Cobblepot then got on with eating his meal in silence, as he usually did. All was normal until he got about halfway through, when without looking up, he spoke again.

"Your name is Sylvestro, am I right?"

Nicholas stiffened but didn't respond. He wasn't sure how Cobblepot had found that out, or why he was interested, but he was sure it meant nothing good.

"An unusual name," said Cobblepot, pushing his food around the tray with his plastic spoon, "One that stands out in the memory."

He set down the spoon with a little flourish, and turned to face Nicholas, resting his chin in one hand.

"And you know, I am certain that I've heard it before."

Nicholas continued to say nothing, deliberately avoiding Cobblepot's piercing green gaze as the smaller man started at him thoughtfully. He wanted nothing more than to leave the room, but that wasn't allowed; he had to stay in the cell until Cobblepot finished his meal, then retrieve the tray and spoon. Inmates in the secure containment units were not unsupervised use of any potentially dangerous items, and even a tray was considered a risk.

Eventually Cobblepot shrugged, and continued his meal.

"I'm sure it'll come to me."

\---

To Nicholas's relief, the next two days returned to their usual pattern of his interactions with Cobblepot taking place largely in silence. Though he did note that Cobblepot still wasn't wearing his glasses for some reason, even though it meant he had to squint at the newspaper with his good eye.

On the third day however...

"I've remembered where I heard your name."

Nicholas felt a touch of cold that had nothing to do with the lack of heating settle into his spine. Cobblepot continued. 

"Or, not yours exactly. Judging by the ages I'd say your father perhaps?"

The touch of cold became a bucket of ice water. There was only one way that Cobblepot could have conceivably heard of his father...

Three months ago, when this cell was uninhabited and Nicholas was still exclusively on general population duty, there had been a break in at an art museum on the south side of town. Not content with stealing several irreplaceable paintings and one tacky modern art sculpture, or with scrawling a message in Latin written in morse code across the foyer in bright green spray paint, the villain responsible had released a toxic gas into the building. Four security guards on the night shift had been killed, and their bodies had been left in a grotesque tableau under the scrawled message.

One of them had been Nicholas's father, Ernest Sylvestro.

The Riddler had been arrested for the crime a few weeks later. 

"I am truly sorry for your loss," said Cobblepot, "I lost both of my own parents several years ago, and I know how painful it can be."

Nicholas chewed at the inside of his cheek. Logic told him that this had to be some kind of trick, but Cobblepot sounded so sincere, with an edge of pain in his eyes that it was hard to believe could be faked.

"Thank you," he muttered, irrationally afraid that some outside force would hear him.

"Such a senseless tragedy..." Cobblepot continued, "Your poor father was just going about his business, doing his job, and he gets cruelly and mercilessly cut down by the random violence of some lunatic in a ridiculous suit."

He stood up, stepping smoothly into Nicholas's personal space.

"He tried to kill me once, you know. More than once, actually."

Nicholas backed up a step, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I feel we have a common purpose."

Cobblepot put a hand on the wall, his arm blocking Nicholas's route to the door.

"I can tell that you want revenge," his voice was low, conspiratorial, darker than Nicholas had heard from him before "Who wouldn't? And I have my own score to settle with 'the Riddler'," he somehow managed to make the mocking inverted commas audible as he said the moniker. "If you take me to him, I can take care of him for you, and you get to watch. You can say anything you want to the higher ups, and I swear I will back you up. Tell them that I threatened you, forced you into letting me past, it doesn't matter to me so long as I'm able to do what needs to be done."

Cobblepot let out a chuckle, and shrugged theatrically. "Not that anyone will probably care a great deal. Just one less maniac to feed and medicate."

For a long moment, Nicholas said nothing, and when he did speak, his own voice sounded strange to his ears.

"They'll extend your sentence..."

Cobblepot grinned.

"A small price to pay."

\--- 

It was surprisingly easy to get Cobblepot across the asylum undetected once he was out of his cell. Understaffed and underfunded as always, there wasn't that much of a security presence away from the more populated areas. It helped of course that stripped of his signature outfits, Cobblepot just looked small and unassuming - not instantly recognisable as the 'King of Gotham' at a passing glance.

It took a little under half an hour for them to arrive in the corridor outside of the Riddler's cell, unhurried as their pace was to avoid suspicion. Cobblepot was silent the whole way there, giving no further details of his plan. Nicholas decided he was better off not knowing. 

As Nicholas unlocked the door and pushed it open, the Riddler was revealed - sitting bolt upright on the narrow metal cot, identical to the one in Cobblepot's cell all the way on the other side of the asylum. 

The Riddler rose to his feet, turned towards the door...

...and smiled?

"Hello, Oswald."

"Hi honey, I'm home."

Before he could process what was happening, Nicholas's world shrank down to a series of physical sensations.

A kick to his kidneys, unbalancing him.

A cold hand in his hair, yanking his head back.

The drag of a blade across his throat.

Heat spilling down his chest.

Dark.

Black.

And nothing.

\---

Oswald wiped the blade of the shiv against the leg of his uniform, a red smear across the white stripes broken up by the black. He stuck the sharpened plastic back into his pocket, it's former use as the arm of his Arkham issued glasses making it the perfect length to be concealed.

Ed frowned down at the corpse on the floor.

"Not your most subtle of plans."

Oswald rolled his eyes. "Are you honestly complaining about how I'm rescuing you?" he crouched down and removed the pepper spray, taser and baton from the guard's belt, keeping the taser and handing the others off to Ed. "I didn't have a great deal of time to work with, I had to improvise and take whatever opportunity presented itself."

Ed tilted his head quizzically, and reached to help Oswald up, his hands idly running up and down Oswald's arms.

"I appreciate the promptness, but I didn't know that time was that much of a limiting factor."

Oswald frowned in concern.

"Don't tell me you've lost track of the date?"

He reached up and brushed his fingers through Ed's hair, touch feather light against his temple. It made his blood boil the way Ed was treated in here - sedated and robbed of points of reference, that beautiful, brilliant mind left clouded and confused. He took Ed's left hand in his own, their fingers intertwining, and realisation dawned on Ed's face like a spring morning.

"Oh... Of course," Ed cupped Oswald's cheek, his thumb stroking gently over the curve of his cheekbone, "It's been longer than I thought..."

Oswald smiled warmly, and stood up on tiptoe, hands braced on Ed's shoulders, to press a soft kiss to his lips.

"Happy anniversary, my darling."

They stepped over the unfortunate guard's body hand in hand, Oswald leaning on Ed for support, as they made their way down the cold, dank corridor. Headed for freedom. Headed for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised part way through planning this that this is the second time I've started Nygmobblepot week with an anniversary story. You could probably consider them part of the same verse.


	2. Day 2 - AU/Crossover: Rivers of Gotham

"How the hell does a person drown on dry land?" 

Detective Bullock looked down at Councilman Leonard Watternick with a mix of confusion and distaste. The donut in his hand dropped a shower of powdered sugar as he gesticulated, missing the body, but landing squarely on the shoulder of Edward Nygma, who was crouched over it.

"How complicated an answer do you want?" said Ed, pushing his glasses up his nose irritably.

"I'm already kinda regretting asking."

"Well, I've done an IVA, and the results of that combined with the damage done to bystanders phones by thaumat-"

"Ed!"

Ed huffed out a frustrated sigh.

"It was a spell. He was killed by a spell."

Officially, as far as public record was concerned, Edward Nygma's designation was 'Specialist Forensic Investigator'. 

Unofficially, on a far more secretive set of records, he was the GCPD's resident wizard.

"Goddamit," Bullock rubbed his hand over his beard, "What I wouldn't give for a normal run of the mill murder. Half of what we deal with these days is your creepy bullshit. I don't even know where to start with this magic crap."

"Well, lucky for you detective," Ed stood up and dusted off his knees, "It's out of your hands now."

 

_Despite what most people think they know about the world, magic is and always has been all around us - as much a part of the natural world as physics, and quantified in secret by the same group of people. Anyone can learn to use it, to sense it's presence, if they only possess a mind open enough to believe, and observant enough to notice._

_Large and powerful acts of magic leave a trace - vestigia; feelings, images, a magician's personal signature. As unique as fingerprints to the trained eye._

_But sometimes, you don't find a match._

_Thankfully, for all his protests, Bullock knew more than he let on, and when the usual leads turned out cold, Ed found himself with an invite to the table of the de facto queen of Gotham’s Unseelie Court…_

 

“You understand of course, that you were only allowed over my threshold because dear Harvey vouched for you. I dealt with the Bat and the Fox once, what does that make you? The weasel?”

Ed accepted the insult with tight lipped grace, though he turned down the drink he was offered; one must be careful of such things when dealing with the fair folk. It would probably have been wise to be cautious even if Fish Mooney had been entirely human.

“With regards to your unfortunate councilman, I know nothing,” Fish traced a golden talon around the rim of her wine glass, having listened to Ed’s requests and explanations “but I can give you some advice. A man chokes on vines, you question the woods. He drowns on dry land, you question the river.”

She kissed his cheek, and her touch seemed to burn him like a drop of acid. She sent him on his way with an address, and an entreaty that he tell 'dear Harvey' to stop by again sometime.

 

_At the start of his career, Ed had been kept busy enough with strictly human practitioners, with the occasional miscellaneous fae. He had heard of things like the being Fish Money directed him to that day, but had never encountered one in person. Whatever ancient spirit had once ruled the river had long since faded from memory, but a river must have its God. Gotham got its own when a young man sank down into the water broken and bleeding, and came out the other side as more than himself._

 

"Well well, it's been a long time since I had a visit from the Isaacs."

Ed wasn't entirely certain what he had expected the anthropomorphic personification of a large body of water to look like, but the small, birdlike man in an immaculate suit that had once been Oswald Cobblepot (and was now so much more) was very much not it. He would concede that the sea-green eyes made sense though.

"So," said Cobblepot, "A man drowns, and your impulse is to blame the water?"

He got out of his seat, a throne of driftwood in an otherwise conventional warehouse office. Running the river means running the trade, being paid tribute by the living in goods, services, favours.

And sometimes by the dead in blood.

"Answer me this, magic man, if I wanted to take out someone that high profile, why would I use a method that points so directly to me?"

"I wasn't accusing you of anything, Mr Cobblepot.," Ed struggled to keep his voice even under that fathomless gaze, "It's just Fish Mooney said..."

Cobblepot laughed then, the bubble of a stream over cut stone. He stepped up to Ed, flicked a speck of dust off his shoulder.

"You tell Mama Mooney that someone on the floodplain would do well to stay out of my business. This far from the sea the tide holds little sway."

 

_Once again, Ed was left with no concrete answers. But this time he left with a promise of help, a tingle in his skin where cool fingers had brushed his hand, and a number in his phone under 'Oswald'._

 

Oswald's help proved to be invaluable, connections and information being the most powerful of currency in all sorts of underworlds. The real culprit was brought in, and as always, Ed stood by and let the homicide detectives take sole credit. 

One didn't get into this job for the glory.

"I wanted to thank you, for your assistance."

"Simply doing my civic duty, Edward."

They shared a drink, with a solemn promise from Oswald that he wouldn't use it to bind them in a contract, and as they drank, they shared other things.

Companionship.

Stories.

"I have to ask," said Ed, a little tipsy on good wine and the perfume of the water at night, "Last year, when Barbara Kean's dockside warehouses flooded..."

Oswald smiled impishly, and gave a faux innocent little shrug.

"Guilty," he playfully patted Ed's knee, "But, you must promise not to tell."

Ed laid his hand over Oswald's, feeling bold.

"If you have me you wish to share me, but if you share me you no longer have me."

Oswald blinked in confusion, and Ed's grip on his knee tightened

"Your secret is safe with me."

 

_It became a regular thing. Detective Bullock's tentative connection with Mama Mooney was allowed to become a strictly social bond once more, while Oswald became Ed's official connection with the supernatural community. As much as any of these things could be official._

_It worked out for everyone concerned._

_Harvey didn't like to be involved in the 'weird crap' any more than was necessary._

_Ed didn't like to have his methods questioned by people who knew little of his work._

_And Oswald, God or not, liked to feel needed._

_It worked out even better when, in the heat of the moment, by the light of a werelight and over the crumbled wreck of a dark magician's hideaway, Oswald pulled Ed into an embrace and sealed their lips in a kiss._

 

"I can't swim."

"You don't need to swim," Oswald took Ed's hands, leading him into the water, cool rather than cold on a summer's evening, "Hold on to me and I'll swim for us both."

With lungs full of air and a heart full of trust, Ed let himself be pulled into the darkness of the river's depths. He felt his chest constrict, and as he felt that he might suffocate, Oswald's soft lips breathed into his - air and life and love.

Supernatural speed and strength carried them to an island in the middle of the river, secluded and shaded by willow trees, untouched by man for so long that the background noise of magic and vestigia was barely there.

Ed cupped his hands, concentrated, and produced a soft werelight to hover over them as they lay in each other's arms. Oswald reached up as though trying to catch it.

"You, my dear, are truly something impressive."

"It's a simple enough spell, only a single-"

Ed's words were cut off by a kiss to his lips, hands on his body...

They made love by the fading werelight, to the sound of gently lapping waves. 

 

_Ed was in love with a river, and somehow that wasn't as weird as it should be._

 

"Do you think you're really immortal?"

Ed and Oswald had been working together for six months, and more than that for three. 

No one at the GCPD seemed any the wiser, content as always to let Ed get on with his 'spooky nonsense' in peace, but news spread fast in the underworld, and all manner of spirits and fae and 'somethings' seemed to have opinions on the matter.

The matter of a human and a river God, and the folly of it all.

"May I ask what's brought this on?"

"Curiosity."

Oswald rolled over, curling into Ed's chest. The curtains shifted in a cool breeze that ghosted across the bed sheets, cooling sweat sheened skin.

"I talk to other rivers occasionally, and what I've heard suggests so," he traced his fingers over Ed's chest, a meandering track from neck to breastbone, "The Hudson has had the same face since before the revolutionary war. But, something came before me, and if they faded away then so could I."

He looked up at Ed with a grin, eyes dancing.

"But I don't intend on going anywhere."

Ed swallowed down a lump in his throat, held Oswald a little tighter.

 

_Perhaps his own human life was small. Maybe he was a man in love with a god, doomed to be forgotten. Maybe that was fine._

_Or maybe there was more than one way of being immortal._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the title suggests, this is based on Ben Aaronovich's 'Rivers of London' series. I will probably write more in this verse at some point (not least to show how certain other characters fit into it!)


	3. Day 3 - Domestic: Seven Days

Manic Monday

 

"No... No... Stop babbling and listen to me! If you need back up, you need to call Victor, I told you you would need more than ten men... Look just deal with it, I'm getting another call..."

Oswald Cobblepot was at the end of his decidedly short tether, with the various denizens of Gotham's underworld having apparently chosen today specifically to try his patience to breaking point. His morning had been one long meeting that vastly overran due to two warring factions inability to hold a conversation without bickering like children, and his afternoon had if anything been even worse.

"Hello..." his face twisted with suppressed rage at the sound of the voice on the other end, "Marko, if you call here one more time... I don't care! You are supposed to be a professional, try acting like one for once and get the job done!"

As he furiously pushed the end call button on his phone, and barely resisted the urge to throw the thing across the room, he heard the quiet sound of someone clearing their throat behind him. He whirled around on the spot, ready to spit venom in the face of whoever dared to interrupt him.

Only to come face to face with his husband, holding out a cup of tea on a gilded saucer.

"Ed, what..."

"You need to relax," said Ed, voice soft, tone matter-of-fact, "and as you skipped lunch, wine will only give you a headache."

He pressed the cup and saucer into Oswald's hands, and Oswald could smell the inviting scent of chamomile sweetened with honey.

"Thank you, my love, I truly appreciate the gesture. But I really don't have time to..."

Ed stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to his chair, and a slim finger pressed against his lips in an intimate gesture that made Oswald's good leg wobble just a little.

"Shh. Sit."

Oswald sank into his chair, giving Ed a look that said 'are you happy now?'. Ed grinned impishly at him, and when the phone rang again, he snatched it up off the table before Oswald had time to reach for it.

"Penguin's office..."

A long pause while a muffled voice ranted into Ed's ear from the other end of the line. When it eventually stopped, Ed spoke with a voice like a winter's breeze.

"Mr Ricardo, do you have any particular preferences with regards to the disposal of your ashes?... Well, your current level of willful incompetence suggests to me that you don't plan to continue breathing for much longer..."

Oswald smiled fondly, melting back into the plush velvet as he sipped his tea. He mouthed a silent 'thank you' at Ed, and laughed softly at the playful wink he got in return. 

 

Must be Tuesday

 

"You can't just be each other's alibis!"

To the surprise of exactly no one, a spate of mob related deaths, and a handful of creative criminal enterprises, had resulted in Detectives Gordon and Bullock showing up at the manor. By no means their first visit, and by no means the first time they were summarily given the brush off by both Ed and Oswald.

"Actually, Detective, as things stand we have both paid our debts to society. We're upstanding citizens."

"And unless you can prove that either of us did the things you're accusing us of..."

"Two separate crimes, of which we are each only suspected of one."

"Then there's no particular reason why our word wouldn't stand up in court."

"Especially in Gotham."

"Especially in Gotham."

Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose, and Bullock groaned in frustration.

"Jesus Christ, I think I liked it better when you two were trying to kill each other."

Ed and Oswald exchanged exaggerated hurt looks from their positions side by side on the sofa. They reached for each other's hands, and were it not for the malicious glee in both their eyes they would have looked like they were posing for an engagement photo.

"I assure you, Detective Gordon, that my husband was with me on the night of the 14th."

"And I assure you, Detective Bullock, that my husband was with me on the night of the 23rd."

Gordon looked as though steam might start rising from his head at any moment, or like he was about to pick one or both of the men sat in front of him up by the necks and shake them until they confessed. Luckily for everyone concerned, Detective Bullock put a restraining hand on his chest, looking thoroughly exhausted by the whole affair.

"Jim, it's not worth it," he said, dejectedly, "We'll just come back when we've got something more concrete." He turned to look at Ed and Oswald, eyes hard. "And we will be back."

"A wise move, Detective. You always were the sensible one," said Oswald, shooting Gordon a triumphant grin.

"Do you need an escort back to your car, gentlemen?" said Ed, rising from his seat in a deliberate mockery of social etiquette.

"Nah, we're good."

Bullock practically dragged Gordon out of the room by his collar, the pair muttering grumpily to each other as they turned down the corridor.

"Bye, Harvey!"

"Bye, Jimbo!"

"Call again soon!"

Bullock's irritated voice drifted back from the entrance hall.

"Shaddap!"

 

Wednesday's child

 

"I'm calling the police."

"You are not calling the police."

"She said she would be back at eleven, and it is almost twelve!"

Oswald threw himself into his armchair with a squeak of protesting leather, his head in his hands, and made a frustrated noise somewhere between a grunt and a growl.

Ed folded his newspaper with a sigh, and rose from his chair to go and perch on the arm of Oswald's. He laid a hand on his back, rubbing it soothingly.

"I'm sure she's fine. She's a responsible girl..." Oswald snorted at that, "...For the most part. And she's hardly the first young person to stay out a while past curfew."

"Oh I am well aware of that," Oswald looked up at Ed, eyes pained, "And I remember that whenever I stayed out 'past curfew', it usually meant I was somewhere tending to my injuries from a beating," his voice cracked and he covered his mouth with his hand, "This is karmic justice for the worry I put my poor mother through, I'm certain of it."

Ed wrapped his arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. He hated to see Oswald upset like this, but it was rather heartwarming how much his husband had come to care for their strange young ward. Neither of them had ever particularly liked children, or wanted to raise any little ones of their own, but Ivy had become a daughter to them in all but blood.

"Ivy is strong. And she's a survivor. A trait you have in common," that got a weak smile out of Oswald at least, "And when she comes home, you can both throw tantrums at each other to your hearts' content."

When Ivy did materialise around one in the morning however, smiling and chattering about someone Selina had beaten up, and things her newest friend Harley had said, there were no tantrums or angry words from either of them. Oswald simply cut her off mid-stream with a fierce hug, and announced he was going to bed. He hobbled off up the stairs, on legs more unsteady than usual.

Ivy tilted her head in confusion, setting down her clutch bag and kicking off her ridiculous high heels.

"Is Pengy okay?"

"He'll be fine," Ed stood, and gripped Ivy by the shoulders, "But don't ever frighten either of us like that again."

 

Could never get the hang of Thursdays

 

Ed's plan was perfect.

Precise, intricate, an expertly woven tapestry of cryptic clues and dramatically appropriate property damage.

Of course this meant that it relied on a great number of details being seen to. Items to be collected, relevant parties contacted, bribed, threatened, materials to be sourced, fabrication, testing, finishing touches...

It was a little overwhelming.

It was... more than a little overwhelming.

Nothing could be allowed to go wrong, and he couldn't entrust any of it to anyone else. Time was of the essence and there simply wasn't enough of it and...

"Ed?"

If he didn't get it all done exactly to specifications then...

"Ed!"

Ed blinked, suddenly aware of his surroundings beyond his own immediate actions. He was sat on the floor of the study, surrounded by papers, delicate machine parts, and craft supplies, spread all around the room like the aftermath of a curiously fractal storm. He could taste blood where he'd evidently bitten down on his lip at some point, and his fingers were sore and ink stained.

"Ed, look at me for a moment..."

His pulse still thrumming, his stomach still clenching, Ed dragged his eyes away from the chaos around him, focusing on Oswald's face. Judging from the tone of his voice and the soft concern in his eyes, he'd been trying to get Ed's attention for a while.

"Hello, Oswald."

Oswald smiled, gently touching Ed's shoulder.

"There you are," he took Ed's hands in his own, holding them in his lap, "Now, slow, easy breaths..."

Ed kept his eyes on Oswald's, focused on the warmth of his hands, the sound of his voice. He felt the knot in his chest loosen, his shoulders relax...

"Alright, now, without thinking about it, off the top of your head, what is the single most important thing you need to do?"

Ed closed his eyes for a moment, spoke quickly and firmly.

"Finish wiring the timer on the detonation device."

Oswald nodded slowly, giving Ed's hands a squeeze.

"Okay, good. So for now, you're just going to do that," he released Ed's hands, and gently ran his hands up and down the tops of Ed's thighs. "Nothing else is important right now, and you do not have to do, or worry about, anything else."

Ed sighed deeply. It was strange, really, how much of a difference simply getting permission to relax could make, when it came from someone he loved and respected. Not a permanent fix perhaps, but a deep relief.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Oswald's.

"Thank you."

"It's no trouble," Oswald pressed a gentle kiss to Ed's lips, and struggled to his feet with a wince. He dusted himself off, and looked around for a potential clear surface to sit on. "Do you want me to stay?"

Ed smiled sheepishly.

"Please."

 

Dancing on a Friday Night

 

As wind and rain whistled outside in the dark evening sky, Ed was bent over the large, iron stove in the manor's kitchen. Olga had the night off, and Oswald was still doing paperwork in the study, leaving Ed alone with his cookbooks and the kitchen radio. He tasted a spoonful of the sauce he was working on, and shook his head disapprovingly. Still not quite right.

"Am I interrupting the master at work?"

Oswald's cane clicked across the worn tiles of the kitchen floor, until he leaned it against the table and wrapped his arms around Ed from behind.

Ed patted Oswald's hands where they were crossed over his belly. "It's nearly finished. The meat needs to rest."

"There is a casserole in the fridge you know," said Oswald, leaning his head against Ed's back. Ed rolled his eyes.

"As much as I appreciate Olga's cooking when freshly prepared, it loses something in being re-heated."

Oswald wrinkled his nose.

"Remind me, how many times have you breakfasted on day old chinese food?"

"...That's hardly the same thing." Ed's pout was audible, and Oswald chuckled softly into his shoulder.

A pinch of brown sugar and a splash of red wine later, and Ed turned down the heat on the saucepan, turning around in Oswald's arms.

"That just needs to simmer a while."

Oswald nodded, hugging him close, the pair swaying slightly to the final strains of a song playing on the radio. As it faded away, the mellow voice of the DJ announced a song far more familiar to the pair of them, and Oswald smiled up at Ed.

Ed grinned back, and the vague, sleepy swaying became something a little more energetic. He ran his hands down Oswald's arms and took his hands, lacing their fingers together.

 _I don't care if Monday's Blue_  
_Tuesday's grey, and Wednesday too..._

Soon they had fallen into a little improvised dance, never letting go of each other's hands. Between Ed's gangly limbs and Oswald's stiff leg it was hardly the most graceful of sights, but the kitchen was warm and cozy, and with no witnesses besides each other they were free to stumble and giggle and steal kisses like teenagers.

 _Thursday, I don't care about you,_  
_It's Friday, I'm in love..._

 

Saturday Night at the Movies

 

"Ooh, Star Trek Four is on tonight..."

"Wasn't that just on? Like, a week ago?"

"No no, that was Star Trek Three, The Search for Spock. This Is Star Trek Four, The Voyage Home. Totally different movie with an entirely different tone, very light hearted," Ed picked up the remote and started scrolling through the channels, clearly gearing up for an extensive gush-fest over his favourite film series. "A lot of people say Wrath of Kahn is the best of the original series movies but personally..."

"Ed..."

Oswald let his head thump back against the back of the couch. He loved his husband dearly, and he was sure he remembered enjoying at least one of the various space films he'd been wheedled into watching with him, but honestly...

"Isn't there anything else on? Perhaps something set on earth?"

Ed paused in his scrolling, and fiddled self consciously with the remote. He doubted that pointing out the fact that Star Trek Four is in fact largely set on earth would be helpful.

"Well... I think the classic movie channel is showing A Matter of Life and Death. I know you like that."

Oswald looked from the flickering image onscreen, to Ed's pathetically crestfallen expression, and back again.

Damnit, even when he knew he was being manipulated he couldn't stand seeing that look on Ed's face.

"No it's fine," he sighed, resignedly, "We'll watch your space thing."

Ed perked up instantly. "You mean that?"

"Apparently," Oswald deadpanned.

Ed practically bounced in his seat, all traces of melancholy instantly gone as he pulled up his movie of choice and grabbed the bowl off the table. Oswald rolled his eyes in fond exasperation.

"You know, one of these days, that's not going to work on me."

Ed flashed a delighted grin and slung an arm around Oswald's shoulder. He pulled his legs up onto the sofa, crossing them under him, and kissed Oswald's temple with the gleeful exuberance of a man who knows 'one of these days' is likely never going to come.

 

Easy Like Sunday Morning

The weather was beginning to brighten by Sunday, and watery sunlight filtered in through the thick curtains of the manor's master bedroom. Songbirds began to stir in the trees, just as the bedroom's occupants began to stir under their covers.

The chilly air and the lateness of the year meant that both were clad in pyjamas - Oswald wore his year round, but these were a heavier cotton than his summer sets - which added a tantalising friction as the pair lazily rubbed up against each other. Their minds and bodies were barely awake yet, but the warmth and comfort led them to seek out each others touch...

Ed looped an arm around Oswald's back, using his reach advantage to pull him close. He was rewarded with soft kisses to his lips, his jaw, his neck, and a slow roll of narrow hips against his own.

"Morning, love..." a muffled murmur into Ed's shoulder as their legs entwined

"Hmm, morning to you too..."

"We don't need to be anywhere today do we?"

Ed's long fingers traced down the front of Oswald's pyjama top, catching on buttons until he reached the waistband of his husband's pyjama pants.

"Nowhere important..."

Oswald smiled against Ed's skin, mirroring his actions with his own hands, but taking that extra bit of initiative and freeing Ed's growing erection from its confines.

"Then let's make the most of our free time."

Their pace was slow, unhurried, luxuriating in each others touch, in pausing just to kiss, to mouth at each others exposed skin. It felt like hours before they reached completion, but when they did it was near simultaneously; their hands working as one as their exposed lengths rubbed against each other. The chorus of quiet moans dying down into the sounds of shared breaths, whispered words of affection. They curled up around each other, loose limbed and peaceful and content.

In a little while they would both need to shower, to get up and go to breakfast, interact with the world. But for now? They could rest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where the rating starts needing to change...


	4. Day 4 - Regret

Ed hated hospitals. 

Not an uncommon sentiment, obviously, but in his case it was especially acute. The smell, the harsh lighting, the hushed voices of visitors and the beeps and hums of machinery... It all brought back too many bad memories.

Arkham hadn't helped matters.

He shifted uncomfortably in his bed, the plastic mattress cover squeaking and the over-starched sheets crinkling. His last round of pain killers hadn't quite kicked in yet, and his head and ribs throbbed dully. The pain in his leg was sharper, but at least the elevated cast stopped it from shifting around.

What hurt more than anything was his pride.

"I would say I told you so, but somehow that doesn't doesn't really feel adequate."

Ed groaned and closed his eyes. He'd known this was coming from the moment things had started to go south with his latest heist.

Oswald set down a vase full of flowers on Ed's bedside table with rather more force than was necessary, his knuckles white around the handle of his cane and his mouth a tight line.

"You know," Ed croaked, "When most people find out their spouses are in hospital, their reaction is one of sympathy."

"Most people's spouses don't put themselves in the hospital by taking on gangs of diamond smugglers armed only with their razor sharp wit!" Oswald's voice was an angry hiss, but his eyes were red rimmed and watery. Ed folded his arms defensively.

"It was a miscalculation. Had everything gone to plan I would have been fine."

"Had everything..." Oswald cut himself off, and rubbed at his eyes in frustration. He sat down heavily in the chair beside Ed's bed, gathering himself.

"I have accepted that you will insist on making terrible decisions," he said, after a long moment, voice carefully calm, "but can you at least limit yourself to ones that don't endanger your life?"

"My life was... barely in danger," said Ed, evasively, "Most of the damage was to my leg."

"Your left leg at that," Oswald nodded to Ed's cast, "If we go walking together we can lean on each other like that pair of one legged ducks that live in Burton Park."

He reached out and brushed Ed's hair back from his forehead, his touch soft and cool against Ed's fevered skin. For all the flippancy of his words, his brow was creased with worry.

"In seriousness... You really frightened me tonight," he said, voice quiet and trembling, "We've been through so much to get to where we are... I couldn't bear to lose you now."

Ed bit down on the inside of his lip. He knew he had a tendency to get... caught up when he was working. To disregard anything but his goal. He hadn't fully considered how his actions would affect his husband.

He took Oswald's hand in his.

"You won't," he said firmly, "This has been something of an eye opener for me, and for both our sakes, I promise I'll be more careful in future."

"So I can tell Zsasz you're willing to take him along as back up?" said Oswald, with a hopeful raise of his eyebrows.

Ed wrinkled his nose. "Does it have to be Zsasz?"

"Well, if I don't exercise him he claws up the furniture."

Ed laughed, wincing at the movement of his ribs, and feeling a stab of guilt at the stricken expression said wince produced in Oswald. He gingerly shifted over to make a space on the bed next to him. Oswald eyed the space with concern.

"Ed..."

"Please, Oswald... you know I sleep better with you next to me."

Oswald smiled softly, and climbed onto the bed. He carefully curled into Ed's side, avoiding his ribs and snuggling into his shoulder.

"Remind me to speak to the administrators about having you moved to a better room, this bed is awful."

Ed kissed the top of his head.

"Anything you say, darling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot shorter today I know, and can be seen as being in the same verse as yesterday's fic.


	5. Day 5 - Kings

Atop the tallest building in the diamond district, a former Falcone property that had been under new management for some time now, the Penguin and the Riddler sat at the edge of the roof, legs hanging off the side.

Far below them, lay the aftermath of a week long showdown. A failed uprising by a gang of wannabes who dared to challenge the combined might of the Cobblepot-Nygma empire. The upstarts had put up the best fight they could, but found themselves utterly outclassed by the two best minds Gotham's criminal world had ever produced.

Oswald and Edward had once again consolidated their power, and had definitively reasserted themselves at the top of the underworld food chain.

Kings of Gotham on thrones carved from the bones of their enemies...

Giddy and giggling and blood splattered, they passed a bottle of champagne back and forth between them - lips on the bottle neck an indirect kiss, bubbles fizzing in their veins.

Ed leaned back on his hands, heels kicking lightly against the brickwork.

"I never really stopped to appreciate how beautiful it really is..."

Oswald was mid swig, and made a questioning 'hmm?' sound through closed lips.

"Gotham." Ed clarified, and the two shared a grin.

Oswald leaned forward, bottle held aloft for balance, and looked down to the streets below. Logic dictated that somewhere down there, at the level of smoke and tarmac and spilled blood, the GCPD would still be crawling around like confused ants. The surviving DeMarco boys would be licking their wounds. Even further below Zsasz and his girls were probably drinking Oswald's liquor in the club's basement...

But from up here, that may as well have been another world. Some distant star whose light took decades to reach earth.

"It's not really obvious from ground level, unless you know what you're looking for."

Ed reached out and laid a steadying hand on Oswald's shoulder, stopping him from tipping forwards too far. He accepted the bottle gratefully when Oswald handed it to him, taking a deep gulp.

"I've always known how beautiful it could be though," said Oswald, with a wistful smile, "You know, when I was a boy, I used to wait until evening, when mother had gone to bed, and I would climb up to the roof of our apartment block and look out over the city." He gestured expansively to the glittering skyline, "We didn't live in the tallest building, but to me, at that age? It felt like sitting on top of the highest tower of my own castle. Up there it didn't matter how small I was, or what any of the bullies at school said, or how poor we were... I was on top of the world, and nothing could touch me."

Ed smiled at him, eyes soft with affection and hazy with the champagne. He took another drink before passing back the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand where a little foam had gotten away from him.

"When I was young, I just dreamed of getting to the big city at all," he said, with a self deprecating chuckle. Ed had grown up in the dull suburbs on Gotham's outskirts, all well kept lawns and small minds. "I wanted to get away from home so badly, and compared to where I was, Gotham seemed like the 'land of opportunity'."

He wiggled his fingers in something approximating jazz hands.

Oswald came close to snorting Champagne out of his nose.

"And what did you think when you actually got here and discovered that it was actually the land of rats, smog and back alley muggings?"

Ed shrugged. "It was still a vast improvement."

Oswald scooted closer to Ed, until they were sat hip to hip. He leaned against him, the bottle held loosely in his hand.

"I love it though," he said, "Even the ugly parts of it. It may be dirty and dangerous and temperamental... but it takes care of us." He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the faint sounds of traffic, music, sirens... breathing in the smells of smoke and exhaust... feeling the cool night breeze against his skin...

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

Ed wrapped his arm around his shoulders

"And now it's yours."

Oswald looked up at him.

"No. It's ours."

He lifted the bottle in a toast.

"To Gotham!"

He took a swig, and Ed plucked it from his hand with a flourish, making a toast of his own.

"To us!"

He took a drink of his own, and nearly dropped the bottle down into the street when Oswald seized his collar and pulled him in for a champagne flavoured kiss. They rested their foreheads together, and Oswald spoke against Ed's lips, voice soft but triumphant.

"Long may we reign."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, blame it on how late I had to stay up to watch the premier last night...


End file.
